Multi-Fandom Drabbles
by The Epic Time Lord
Summary: A collection of oneshots. Text copyright Erri Parker 2014- The right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. This is published under the condition that it shall not be reproduced in whole or in part without consent of the copyright holder. Disclaimer: I do not own any of the TV shows or books I write about. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

Just a little group of one-shots and drabbles, varying in length, from my fandoms.  
>I may or may not take requests, depending upon whether or not I want to. Just be warned, I won't write one-shotsdrabbles for OC's. I'm only using canon characters.  
>I might do pairing one-shots, but only if I ship it ^_^<br>These are all the things I will write one-shots for. Things with one star (*) I'm most comfortable writing, two stars I'm okay with, and three stars I'm least comfortable.

-The Book Thief *  
>-Doctor Who*<br>-Sherlock*  
>-Supernatural*<br>-Harry Potter*  
>-Avatar: The Last Airbender*<br>-Percy Jackson/HoO**  
>-Divergent**<br>-The Maze Runner**  
>-CreepyPasta*<br>-The Mortal Instruments***  
>-Songs* ^<br>-Wings of Fire**  
>-Star Trek***<br>-Rise of the Guardians**  
>-Pretty much anything Disney<p>

^Song one shots are when I take a song and relate them to a certain character, and go through the lines with different scenes with that character  
>So, um, yeah.<p> 


	2. Redemtion--Avatar

**Redemption-**  
><strong>Avatar: The Last Airbender<strong>

_Sokka's thoughts on the way to The Boiling Rock._

Sokka had never expected the air to be so thin.

Of course, he'd flown on Appa dozens of times before, but this was different. The war balloon soared higher than Aang had ever taken Appa, and it didn't help that the fire used to keep the balloon going sucked up most of the available oxygen. Sokka tried to distract himself by attempting to break the ice with Zuko. However, considering the latter had been hunting him down for the past several months, the conversation fell flat within minutes, leaving Sokka to his panting breaths and his thoughts.

As Zuko kept an eye on the fire in the balloon, Sokka's mind began to wander to the reasons he'd set out on this ridiculous mission to begin with. The more he thought about it, the crazier it seemed. He'd already failed badly enough at the invasion, and wasn't that proof enough? Did he really need to go on an insane suicide mission?

The answer, of course, was yes. Sokka needed to go. He needed to save his dad. The invasion plan was _his_ idea, so it was _his_ fault his dad had been taken to the Boiling Rock. It was _his_ responsibility to fix it. He had to redeem his honor—

Sokka chuckled at the irony of it. His eyes shifted to Zuko, whose back was to him. For the majority of Sokka's adventures with Aang, the fire nation prince had been the one trying to regain his own honor—mostly by attacking him and the gang. And yet, here he was, helping Sokka on this crazy rescue operation that could go horribly wrong at any point. He allowed himself a half-hearted laugh.

"What?" Zuko asked, turning around.

Sokka shook his head, waving the question aside. "Nothing."

He looked out over the edge of the basket, watching as the sun disappeared into the sea of clouds. It was probably still light down on the ground, he conceded, but where they were, the fire of the balloon was the only light for as far as he could see. He gulped, peering out into the muffled, silhouetted shapes of the clouds.

And then Sokka sighed. He took a deep breath, settling back into a comfortable position. Worrying wouldn't do him any good. The invasion plan had failed, but it wasn't his fault that it had. The Fire Nation had known about it beforehand and he couldn't have controlled that.

Right now, he had to stop thinking about the unsuccessful fluke that was the invasion. Right now, he had to focus on getting his dad back.

He straightened up, seeing the plume of smoke rising over the clouds on the horizon. The balloon shook in the air, and started sinking as the air around him spiked in temperature.

He had to save his dad.

And that was exactly what he would do.


	3. The Girl and the Jew--The Book Thief

**The Girl and the Jew—**

**The Book Thief**

_Liesel and Max's reunion after the war._

_When the war was over and Hitler had delivered himself into my arms, Alex Steiner resumed work in his tailor shop. There was no money in it, but he busied himself there for a few hours each day, and Liesel often accompanied him. They spent many days together, often walking to Dachau after its liberation, only to be denied by the Americans. _

_Finally, in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a clean-shaven face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. "Is there someone here by the name of Liesel Meminger?"_

_ "__Yes, she's in the back," said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be sure."May I ask who is calling on her?"_

_Liesel came out._

_They hugged and cried and fell to the floor._

_-Markus Zusak_

Liesel stepped out. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly, forming the word "Max." No sound came from her mouth, however, and a tear wriggled out of her eye. Max's feathery hair flopped on top of his head, and his swampy eyes were filled with pure delight.

"Max." She said it out loud this time.

Neither of them moved, and they stared at each other from across the room, but somehow, all of a sudden, they were in each other's arms.

She buried her face into his chest. Tears squeezed themselves out of Liesel's eyes, fighting for escape. They fell into Max's grey sweater, absorbing into the fabric. She breathed in the smell of him—the smell of Papa's old cigarettes and the basement's melted but still standing snowman and peeling paint on the cement walls. Her home was gone, and yet here it was. The last fragment of home existed in Max Vandenburg.

And suddenly, she started to laugh. She pulled away, tears falling into her open mouth as she collapsed to the floor beside Max. Both were in hysterical fits of laughter, and it must have been quite a sight for poor Alex Steiner.

But they were alive.

Somehow, miraculously, in all the big wide world ruled by the humans and stirred by the sun, Max and Liesel had survived. Clinging onto life in this tiny town, in this tiny country, on this insignificantly tiny world.

They were alive.

Eventually, after Max and Liesel had calmed, they left Alex's shop. The sun was high in the sky, and Liesel thought she could catch a glimpse of a long, rope-like cloud. They strolled together down the street, the girl and the Jew, earning resentful glares and relieved glances alike. Some had taken the ending of the war better than others, it seemed.

They walked and walked, side by side, not saying anything. No words were required, and they kept going until they reached the Amper River. They sat on the riverbank, staring at the rushing water.

For a long time, neither Max nor Liesel said anything.

Finally, Max.

"Liesel, I—" he paused, trying to figure out the right thing to say. "What I mean to say is…" The words caught in his throat. How does someone who's been through his own hell ask about another's?

"What happened?" he finally asked. "I mean, I heard the bombs, and—" he seemed to choke on his own words.

Liesel's eyes were glossy, and she tilted her head towards him. She was suddenly aware of a very distinct memory, of a cloud that was like a great white beast with a grey heart, that came from over the mountains. She sniffed, blinked away tears, then spoke. "The planes were like great, noisy beasts," she whispered, "noisy beasts with fiery hearts, and they came from the sky."

Another long silence ensued. Liesel leaned her head on Max's shoulder, silently crying. Two different hells, two different strings of colors, collided in that moment.

"Let's go, Liesel," he said gently. They stood, together, and began trekking along the Amper River. Liesel's hand found Max's, and she wrapped her fingers around his, saying nothing. As they walked, the sky behind them turned a soft shade of orange, like rose petals.

They passed the place where a _Saukerl_ with candlelit hair had fetched a book from icy waters; where he'd trudged out, asking for the book thief's kiss for the last time.

They went by the spot where a letter addressed to no one had told an idiot who'd angered some coatmen that he'd done enough.

They crossed the point where Papa had taught Liesel the words, giving her music while a piece of jam-smeared toast sat by his side.

There was the site where a _Saumensch_ and a _Saukerl_ had fallen sick eating their stolen apples.

They finally ended up at the bridge, stepping on it and peering over its edge into the water. The river rushed by so fast, as if it could sweep away all of someone's memories if they only stepped inside. Liesel swallowed her sadness the way one would swallow a pill, quickly and without thought. But stubbornly, tears still spilled from her bloodshot eyes.

"Max," she said softly. "When you were gone, Papa and I—" she struggled to keep from breaking apart. Bits and pieces of her snapped off and fell into the water. They were carried away by the current.

"We saw you in the water," she whispered, looking down at the river hurrying by. Children crossed the bridge behind them, ringing the bells on their bikes and laughing merrily.

Max reached out his hand, putting an arm across Liesel's shoulders and pulling her closer to him. "It's okay, Liesel," he said, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. _It's okay._

There would come a time when Max would be the one to fall apart, when his mind would be riddled with memories. He would scream at the reminder of him leaving his family and not looking back. He would sweat and pant every time he heard the _Führer_'s footsteps coming down a nonexistent staircase. His hands would clench in rage and also fear when he recalled everything they'd put him and the other Jews through at Dachau. He would cringe each time a still-racist German flung a slur in his direction.

And there would come a time when it would be Liesel coaxing him back to himself. She would pick up his cracked pieces and put him back together and whisper, "It's okay, Max."

Max needed Liesel. He'd lost his father and mother and family and Walter Kugler. He'd lost the Hubermanns, too. Liesel was all he had left.

Liesel needed Max. She'd lost her brother and mother and Rudy and Mama and Papa. Max was all she had left.

They stood for a long time, together on the bridge. The word shaker and the Standover man. The book thief and the sky stealer.

The girl and the Jew stood under the sun, feeling it stir them like stew.

_**A/N: I don't really know what this is-my mind kinda just barfed on the paper and this is what happened x3**_

_**Reviews and comments always appreciated ^_^**_


	4. I Still Believe--Doctor Who

**I Still Believe—**

**Doctor Who**

_In which the Doctor visits Anne Frank._

Summer 1942, Nazi-inhabited Netherlands. It was certainly a time and a place to remember. It would be forever burned into my memory, like the disappearance of the Lost Moon of Poosh, like the Angels' invasion of New Earth, like the creation of Raxacoricofallapatorius's twin planet Klom.

Yes, the summer of 1942 in Nazi-controlled Europe. That was a time for the history books, it was. More specifically, it was the people whose stories started in that summer that really made it one for remembering.

I distinctly recall Anne Frank's family. July 6, 1942. The day was hot, so hot, but Anne, Margot, and their parents were all covered in layers and layers of clothing. They didn't want to run the risk of being spotted with luggage. They trekked for quite a long time, finally arriving at the Secret Annex.

But enough about their journey. I remember a different occasion, Hitler's _Machtergreifung_, or seizure of power. He grasped the position of Chancellor of Germany in early 1933. Anne had been three years old then, and Margot was six, and their parents thought the suppression would pass. Most of Germany did at that time.

The Franks fled to Amsterdam in 1934, thinking they'd be safe there. I don't really know why I'd followed them so much. I felt an attachment to them, specifically to Anne. It always surprised me every time I saw her words:

_Despite everything, I still believe people are really good at heart._

And I spent an eternity (quite literally an eternity—I was stuck in the void for quite a bit and trying to occupy my time) trying to figure out just exactly how it was possible for her to have so much hope, so much faith in humanity, when I myself have lost it so many times.

And so, I watched her. I watched Anne and her family; I gave sideways glances at the building that contained the Secret Annex, occasionally slipping into the bottom floor at nighttime and listening to the sounds of the families breathing upstairs. In a few years, all the inhabitants of the Annex would be killed. Otto Frank would be the only one to survive the war.

I wanted to help.

Please, believe me.

I wanted to save Anne and Margot and Peter and give them the lives that were wrenched away from them. I wanted to stop Anne from dying, and I wanted to watch her grow up. She always wished to be a journalist, and I wanted to give that to her.

But I couldn't. I couldn't save Anne. Her death was a fixed point in time and I was powerless to help.

Of course, I usually find a way around these things. A loophole, if you will. Even though I could not save Anne's life, maybe I could save her hope. Maybe I could preserve her memory. And so I listened. I listened to the frightened whispers of Miep and Jan Gies, those who helped hide the Annex, and when it seemed like Anne was losing it, I interfered.

Silence was important, of course. Even though I loved the sound of the TARDIS, I had to turn the damn brakes on (River would be delighted) when I visited the Annex. The TARDIS made a hushed landing in the middle of the main room, and I crept towards the door to Anne. It was slightly ajar, enough for me to slip through. As I'd imagined, Fritz Pfeffer was snoring in bed, but Anne was wide awake, clinging onto the edge of her bed.

It took a few minutes for her to realize I was there. She jumped, but she instinctively made no noise. A few years in hiding will do that to you. "Who are you?" Anne Frank whispered, clutching her blanket to her chin. I could see her eyes frantically searching the room for anything to use as a possible weapon—and _frank_ly (pardon the pun) I don't blame her. Madman in a bowtie shows up in your room in the middle of the night when you're supposed to be hiding from the Nazi Party—hey, I'd freak out too. Especially if I were a 14 year old teenage girl. Which, I'm not. Usually.

I was about to explain myself (dear god, imagine what a mess that would've been) but Anne suddenly stopped panicking. Recognition flashed in her eyes, surprising me. _Well,_ I _had_ been watching her family for a while, and it was possible she might've seen me—

_I'm not a stalker, I swear!_

I didn't say it, but I was thinking it.

To my surprise, Anne smiled. "I knew you'd come," she whispered. Her hand dropped the blanket and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing up silently.

"Oh—?" I managed. "Really, now?"

"You've been watching us. I see you sometimes, out the window. You and that box," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's something off about it. It doesn't belong here." She looked past my shoulder, into the moonlit room beyond and my TARDIS standing there.

"Oh." I should probably work on my nonexistent stealth skills.

"Can I see?" she asked, eyes lit up with that familiar curiosity and wonder I'd heard about, and now witnessed firsthand.

I didn't say anything for a long time. I really should think these things through. What the bloody hell was I thinking? Sometimes I think I just BS my way through being a time lord.

"'Course," I said, stepping back. I walked over to the TARDIS, unlocking her and beckoning the girl to follow.

"How'd you get that in here?" She stood up and followed, standing in front of me and trying to peek past me into the TARDIS.

"It's a long story. Come and see?"

Eagerly, she pushed past me, into the control room. Her eyes widened and she pivoted around on her foot, her mouth hanging open in surprise. I smirked.

"Go ahead, say it. They all do."

"It's—it's bigger on the inside," she whispered, voice cracking with awe. She turned to me. "What is it?"

"She's called the TARDIS. Time and Relevant Dimension in Space." I reached out, closing the door behind us. "She's a time machine. She can go anywhere in time and space. And she's mine."

Anne mouthed the word _TARDIS_, running her hand along the main controls. She laughed, then clamped her hand over her mouth, looking at me in fear.

"Don't worry, she's soundproof."

Her hand fell away.

"Why are you showing me all this? Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor, and— "

"Doctor _who_?"

"Just…the Doctor. I want to show you something. Think about the thing you want most in the world right now."

She considered. I could see the wheels in her head turning, and she blushed sheepishly. "Well, Peter—"

Exasperated, I cut her off. "No, I mean _more_ than that. Deeper than that. What do you want?"

This time, she took longer. Anne's face creased with concentration, and she absently scratched the back of her head. _I do that too._

"I want to know that all this is worth it. Does the war end? Will we be okay?"

I smiled. This is what I wanted to hear. Springing to action, I allowed my hands to fly over the controls (remembering to keep those damn breaks off! Again!) and fast-forwarded to June 1945. That was another time to remember—the Allied forces and the Soviet Union had finally gotten the Axis to surrender. 20,000 concentration camps were discovered and liberated throughout Europe, along with the unearthing of over seven million 'accidents.' This was what I wanted her to see.

We landed in Berlin. I opened the door and tilted my head. "Go on. Take a look."

Skeptically, she walked towards the door and hesitantly stepped outside. I allowed myself a smile when I heard her gasp of surprise. "Where are we?" she asked, her voice carrying on the gentle breeze.

I followed her out, shutting the door behind me, and squinted my eyes against the sun. "Berlin, 1945. The Nazis are defeated."

The look on her face was priceless. I watched her spot a discarded newspaper on the ground and run over to it, picking it up. She read the date and the headline, and turned to me. Tears were now cascading down her cheeks. "What did I tell you?" I said.

She dropped the newspaper and ran to me, throwing her arms around my body. "Whoa, easy there," I said, but I hugged back. She squeezed harder.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said.

And I think she understood.

I think she knew that she couldn't stay here, and that this was a long way off. I think she knew that I was showing this to her, of all people, because she wouldn't get the chance to see it later. How she was able to understand all that and still remain grateful, I'll never know.

It surprises me what humans can do.

Anne pulled away eventually, leaning against the side of the TARDIS. There would be more troubles to come for the world, of course, but right now I'm certain that all she could see was the words of the headline, printed across her vision, saying that the war was finally over.

"I'm ready to go back now," she said after a while. She looked up at me and smiled a smile so sad and so knowing it tore my hearts in two. I still can't believe how she, a 14 year old girl, was able to accept the fact that she wasn't going to live.

I don't think I would be able to.

We both reentered the TARDIS, and I landed back in the room in the Secret Annex. A few minutes had passed, at the most. We both stepped out, walking over to the room where Fritz was still snoring contently. She pulled her diary out from underneath her mattress, and in the darkness of the room, she began to write.

I know which line she was putting down at that exact moment.

I know.

You know.

She knows.

I left her to her writing, walking back to my TARDIS. I cast her one last longing look before I closed the door, and as quietly as I could, steered away from Amsterdam, 1944.

I've been told that the sound of the TARDIS brings hope to people. That whooshing, whirring, mechanical sound of her landing and taking off gives people the faith they need to move on.

But with Anne, it wasn't needed. The silence was enough.

Anne, the boisterous and energetic little girl, who had accepted her death in silence. Who had seen the ending of the war and responded with quiet tears. Who quietly wrote in her diary at night, crafting the words that would hold her memory for centuries.

I've done many things I regret in my long life, but among them there are the scattered moments when I accomplish something great. This was one of those moments. It's hard to believe that I myself really am good at hearts, but sometimes, I think, it's all worth it.

And if Anne still believed, then, I guess, so did I.

**A/N: I got the idea for this from a short headcanon by a tumblr user, but sadly, I have no idea who the person was. If any of you know who originally wrote the headcanon, please let me know so I can give them credit ^_^**


	5. The Missing Piece--Harry Potter

**The Missing Piece—**

**Harry Potter**

_A __very__ short snippet of Molly Weasley_

Years have passed since the Second Wizarding War, and Molly's life is nearing its end. Her sons and daughter had all grown up, and she had so many grandchildren that with her old age it was difficult to recall all of their names. Arthur Weasley, headstrong as ever, had passed a year or two earlier, very peacefully in his sleep.

The Burrow was silent now, absent of the sounds of all her joyful children, and now even her reliable husband. Never had the house seemed so big, so hopelessly empty. Of course, her kids still came around to visit every so often, and they would all be there every Christmas and New Years'. But it wasn't the same.

Molly would always leave a place for Fred at the table. She would set up the plate and silverware and everything—she'd even serve him turkey or soup or whatever was being eaten—and would spend the majority of the meal staring at the plate. She was caught whispering several times, "Freddie dear, you're going to get sick if you don't eat something."

When Molly finally reached her end, it was Christmas Eve. Dessert had already been served and for the most part, was all eaten. The guests were all chattering aimlessly around the dinner table. For the first time since Fred's death, Molly's face lit up in a wrinkled smile. She cast her gaze on the empty seat at the table.

"It's about time you come home, Fred."

And then she slipped away.

_**A/N: I JUST realized that I accidentally misspelled the title of the first one-shot-it should "Redemption," not "Redemtion." Oops x3**_

_**On another note, I also just set up my beta-reading profile, so I now can beta read other stories! :D **_

_**Lastly, I want to apologize for the shortness of this. When I made it longer it just seemed kind of awkward and overstuffed. Sometimes less is more, eh?**_


	6. Burnt Wings--Supernatural

**Burnt Wings—**

**Supernatural**

_LET'S ALL SAVE DEMON!DEAN_

_AU-five months after 9x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles?"_

_Thud_.

The backpack fell on the bed, jostling its cheap springs for a few seconds before settling into the mattress. Sam Winchester followed it, sinking into the squeaky springs. The room had that familiar smell to it—that old-motel stench of dead cigarettes, stale coffee, and crappy detergent.

The bunker was much a much safer place, of course, but since Dean had gone missing (and Crowley, too—an unlikely coincidence if he'd ever seen one), Sam had been frantically searching the country for his big brother and the King of Hell. More than anything, he just wished it would all be over.

_"__Remember when we used to just hunt…wendigos?"_

That was before all of this angel-demon crap. That was before the Apocalypse, before the Leviathans, before the Trials, before prophets, before the Mark, before all the destiny and free will and who knew what else. Back when the Winchesters' life was just old rock music, the musty smell of the Impala, ganking legendary monsters, and miles and miles of open road.

"Damnit, Dean," Sam said to an empty room. He turned onto his side and leaned on his elbow, looking over at the unoccupied bed that should belong to his brother. He fished his laptop from his backpack, searching the Internet or something—anything—that could give even the slightest hint of a hint of where his brother was.

Sam fell asleep an hour later.

His head was slumped against the keyboard.

The screen's light cast his face into dark shadows.

Finding Dean was still a distant dream.

.

.

.

"Commander."

Hannah's soft, clear voice pierced through Castiel's thoughts, causing his head to snap up. His vision was blurry and unfocused for a few seconds, but then his eyes settled on Hannah's frame.

"I told you, don't—don't call me that…"

"Castiel," she said, more urgently. The two made eye contact, staring in silence for a few seconds. "We need your help. The angels, they're—" her voice caught in her throat. "It's complete chaos out there. Total anarchy. We—"

"You think I don't know that?" Cas snapped. He stood up, turning away from Hannah. He pressed his hands to his forehead."I'm sorry, I—I'm trying, Hannah."

The truth was, trying to put heaven back together was the last thing Cas wanted to do. Fixing the broken, wayward angels was daunting. Impossible. They could never go back to the way they'd been before, but trying to teach free will to the angels wouldn't be a walk in the park, either.

_Dean would know what to do_.

Cas couldn't help it. The thought slipped through his mind even as he tried to convince himself it wasn't true. Even if it was, it wouldn't do him any good. Dean was nowhere to be found. He wasn't sure what was worse—hearing that Dean was dead or finding out that he had somehow, miraculously, survived, and was missing with the King of Hell.

"How can I help?" Cas finally said, ignoring his thoughts and turning back to face Hannah. It was then that he noticed something different about her—her eyes sagged more, her shoulders were slouched, her expression dull, like a corroded penny. He never thought it'd be possible to see a tired angel, and yet, here Hannah was, the exhaustion written clearly on her face.

She shook her head, waving her hand in the direction of the door. "Follow me," she whispered, voice breaking.

The door had barely opened a crack, but Castiel could already hear the screams.

.

.

.

"Hello, darling."

"Where the hell am I?"

Crowley said nothing. He smirked, chuckling a little, and removed the blindfold from Dean's face. Dead black eyes stared back at the King, and Dean tried to wriggle out of his chair.

"Ah, ah, ah," Crowley scolded. He knelt down so that he was eye-level with Dean. "Demon trap on the chair," he said. "Funny how none of you hunters ever thought of that little trick."

Dean looked like he was about to respond, but he instead threw his head back and screamed.

"Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that little tidbit," Crowley's voice cut through the din. "Before we can do the whole howling at the moon thing." The King of Hell stood and began pacing around the chair. "Of course, you know how demons are created. They go to hell, they get tortured for centuries, blah-blah-blah. Boring stuff. Elementary."

He placed his hands on the back of the chair and tilted it so that Dean looked up at him. The newly-turned demon had stopped screaming, but his face was contorted with pain and confusion.

"To be perfectly honest, I had no idea if what I did would work," he continued. He let go of the chair and it thudded back into position, resulting in a half-grunt of pain from Dean. "But hey, it did, so no harm done. Right, Dean?"

No answer.

"Oh, don't be like that. I saved your life." Crowley chuckled. "Again." He gave a sideways smile. "So, yeah, me turning you into a demon was kind of bending the rules a bit. But who am I kidding? Bending the rules is your style, isn't it, _Winchester_?"

"W-what's—happening—to—me?" Dean choked out the words, blood slipping through his lips with every syllable.

"Pay attention, Dean. I'm explaining." Crowley's eyes flicked to red; he glared at Dean. His voice was calm but laced with venom."Don't interrupt."

His eyes flipped back to their normal color, and he kept talking. "So, since I'm the King of Hell, I thought, 'Why not? Why not help the Winchester boy? After all, he got rid of Abaddon.' I mean, granted, I was next on your list, but let's overlook the trivia." His voice was thick with irony and sarcasm.

"So, you're a demon. You're still alive. Yippee. Only one problem remains. Quite obvious, really."

Crowley's speech was interrupted by an abrupt, intense coughing fit from Dean. Blood spewed from the hunter's mouth, droplets of it speckling Crowley's skin.

"Like I said, obvious," Crowley muttered, pulling out a handkerchief and nonchalantly wiping the blood off his face. "Transformation into a demon is nasty under the _best_ of circumstances. I should know. I'm the King of Hell. But obviously, we are not in the best of circumstances, are we?

"The solution, of course, is to stop it. Stop you from becoming a demon. Why am I helping you? Trust me, I don't want you as a demon any more than your sorry little moose does. You're bothersome enough without powers of epic proportions." He smirked.

"How—how do we stop this?" Dean's eyes oscillated between black and green; the demon winced each time.

"I have a theory. Mind you, nobody's ever done this before, so you're like my little guinea pig. But since a demon—and not just any demon, the bloody King of Hell—made you a demon, maybe an angel, or the King of Heaven, can make you human again." He paused. "Then, once you're human he could technically make you an angel. Theoretically speaking, of course.

"Now where are we going to find the King of Heaven? God's out of the question. He's been gone for centuries. Metatron is locked up in heavenly prison. But I hear—I hear there's a new sheriff in town. Your little feathered friend Castiel seems to have taken charge of things upstairs.

"So here's what I'm going to do. Moose, bless his soul, has spent the past few months driving himself _mad _looking for you. And you know what I'm going to do?"

Crowley knelt down in front of Dean again.

"I'm going to let him find you."

.

.

.

"Relax, Moose. Put the knife down. I'm here to talk about your brother."

Sam kept the knife trained on Crowley. His eyes were narrowed into slits—having the King of Hell show up at your place of residence at three in the morning is never a good thing to wake up to. Especially when said King disappeared with your supposedly dead brother five months ago.

"Where is he?"

Crowley sighed. "Put the knife down, Moose. Then we'll talk."

Sam swallowed silently, blinking once, then twice. Reluctantly, he lowered the demon blade, setting it on the bedside table. "Where's Dean?" he asked again.

Crowley made as if to speak, then shook his head. "Sit down."

Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, Crowley explained. Sam yelled out several times, and on two occasions reached out for the blade, but always pulled himself back at Crowley's accusing glare.

"S-so, you're telling me that Cas can bring back my brother?" Sam, as always, was skeptical.

"Probably. Maybe." Crowley stood up, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Care for a drink?"

"Crowley, it's almost four in the morning. I'm not drinking _whiskey_," Sam said, exasperated. Heaven may be falling apart and Dean may be missing, but Crowley could still piss Sam off with his odd habits and random impulses. Some things never changed.

The King let out a soft chuckle, downing the glass in one huge gulp. He set the glass on the bedside table, right next to the demon blade. "Well, Moose, I've got places to be. A kingdom to run. A squirrel to stop from wreaking havoc on everything."

"Crowley—!" Sam stood up to stop the demon, but he was already gone. "Damnit!" He brushed his fingers through his hair. "_Damnit_, Crowley!" He paced back and forth, swearing to himself, until he received a call from the lobby asking him to quiet down.

Sam breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down. He sat on the edge of the bed, tensed. Was Crowley telling the truth? Could Cas really bring back Dean? More importantly, _would_ Cas bring him back? Sam had tried calling the angel countless times after Dean's disappearance, but there was never any response. Sam gave up after the first two months. In all honesty, he didn't blame him—answering Sam's calls would sap even more of Cas's limited grace, and it seemed like Heaven would need all the help it could get.

"But this is Cas," Sam reminded himself. "If I—if we—know for sure Cas can help Dean, of course he'll come."

So Sam Winchester knelt by the side of his bed, placed his hands together on the mattress, and began to pray.

.

.

.

Castiel sighed as he heard the soft click of his door opening and closing. He turned to face Hannah, whose tired face was now creased with lines of worry and caked in dust and blood.

"Hannah, are you all right?" Cas immediately stood and went over to her, eyes squinted with worry.

"The blood isn't mine," she said softly.

"Oh. I—I see." He took a small step back. "Please tell me you have good news?"

Whether or not Hannah had good news, however, Cas didn't get to hear. A voice stole through their conversation—and not just any voice.

Sam Winchester sounded as desperate, exhausted, and defeated as Castiel felt, but there was still a glimmer of hope in his voice. His prayer was long, but Cas only needed to hear the first five words.

Five words.

That was all it took for Cas to make up his mind.

"_I know where Dean is_."

.

"…and there are also quite a few angels who still follow Metatron, even after what he did. They're convinced he's God, and we've had to increase the security on his—"

"I have to go."

"W-what?"

Cas's blue eyes stared straight at Hannah. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

"With all due respect sir, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

With every second, Cas could feel his stolen grace fading away. Each time he ventured out of the safety of this room, each time he followed Hannah to help some other unfortunate angel in the sea of unfortunate angels, his grace disappeared faster. But now, instead of arguing with Hannah, instead of listening to the voice of reason and conserving his dwindling powers, he turned away from her and opened his wings.

.

"Where?"

Sam jumped, reaching for the demon blade, but settled down when he realized who the voice belonged to. "Cas," he said, voice tinged with disbelief. "I didn't think you'd come."

Castiel seemed confused, almost hurt by the statement. He stared at Sam, making the latter slightly uncomfortable. "Of course I came." He squinted his eyes. "You said you knew how to bring Dean back. You said I could help."

Sam shook his head quickly. "Yeah. Sorry." He quickly explained everything Crowley had told him, not bothering to try and figure out what the increasingly hopeless look on Cas's face meant.

"Sam, I'm—I'm sorry." Cas sank into the empty mattress, burying his face into his hands. His elbows dug into his knees.

"What the hell do you mean? Come with me and help me bring my brother back!" The phone rang again, probably the lobby trying to tell him to shut up again.

"I'll try," Cas said, looking up at Sam. "I don't know if it will be enough. If _I_ will be enough." His expression was lost, terrified. "I don't want to let you down again, Sam. I don't want to let Dean down."

"What do you mean, if it won't be enough? Crowley said—"

"I don't believe Crowley took into account just how quickly my grace is fading," Cas said, standing up. Even now, he could feel his grace eating away at itself, burning upinside him. "I will come with you, Sam. I will do my best to help Dean. But I don't know if it will work."

.

.

.

"You're late," Crowley commented, watching an exhausted Sam and a burnt-out Castiel enter the empty corridor. The King of Hell stood peeking out a door, while an unconscious Dean was tied to the demon-trapped chair inside the room.

"We had to drive," Sam said, entering the room and closing the door behind Cas. He made a very deliberate point of not looking at his brother.

"Oh, don't tell me the King of Heaven couldn't teleport himself and Moose over here to save his precious little righteous man." Cas glared at Crowley. The demon stared back, smirking slightly. "Not in the joking mood, are we?"

"What do I have to do?"

"To be perfectly honest, I have no clue."

"Damnit, Crowley!" Sam nearly exploded. He certainly would have if it weren't for Dean, who snapped his eyes open and stared blankly at the three in the room. "Dean? _Dean_?" Sam exclaimed, kneeling down by his brother. "Dean, it's me." But there was no recognition in the black eyes.

"Sorry, Moose. He has no clue who you are. Or who I am, for that matter." Crowley turned to Cas. "By the way, Castiel, shouldn't your angel friends be looking for their boss?"

Cas turned his head to face Crowley. "I turned off angel radio." He sighed. "But Hannah probably has at least a dozen angels on my trail right now."

"Right, which is why we need to hurry!" Sam's frantic voice interrupted their conversation.

Cas nodded, and Sam moved aside to make room for him. The angel knelt in front of Dean, trying not to look away from the black demon eyes that every instinct told him to hate. _Please. Let this work._ He wouldn't—couldn't—fuck it up again. Not now.

.

"Castiel!" Hannah had already arrived.

Sam leapt to his feet. "Come on, Crowley."

Crowley sighed, annoyed. "Moose, what are you—"

"We can't let the angels find them!" He gestured to Cas and Dean.

The King let out another exaggerated sigh, then followed Sam outside.

.

With the other two gone and Dean staring blankly at nothing, the room was uncomfortably silent. For a short eternity, Cas just looked at demon-Dean, wondering where to start and how to bring back the real Dean. _His_ Dean.

"Hello, Dean."

A small, sad smile played at his lips. Dean, of course, didn't respond. Cas bit his lip. Tears welled up behind his eyelids.

_No. _If this crazy idea worked, Cas didn't want him crying to be the first thing Dean woke up to. So he put on a smile, the way you'd put on a mask. "It's okay, Dean," he whispered, reaching out a hand. It rested on Dean's forehead. The hunter's skin was cold as ice. "I'm still here."

Cas could feel the last remnants of his grace tingling inside him. Every instinct, every rational thought, screamed at him to stop. And it wasn't just inside his head, either. Hannah's voice echoed throughout the building. "I know you're there, Castiel! I know what you're trying to do! You need to stop!"

"I will not," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

"_Castiel!_ You can't keep going!" Her voice was shrill and desperate and loud, so loud, so loud. "It's going to kill you!"

Eyes still closed, hand still transferring power and energy into Dean's limp form, Castiel's lips twitched into a smile. "I know," came the murmured reply. _I know_. He really shouldn't have worried to begin with. The amount of grace left inside him was just _barely_ enough, but it was enough. It would sap up all of his angelic powers, it would take away any energy he had left to become human, but it would be enough to save Dean.

.

.

.

The flash of white light was so bright that every creature in the building, whether angel, human, or demon, covered their eyes and looked away. The lights flickered, then went out. There were several disconnected yells and broken sentences; flashlights flicked on and sliced through the darkness.

"Castiel, what did you do?" Hannah's voice filled the empty air, as clear as one of the flashlight beams in the silence. Red emergency lights began to glow, leaving Sam and Crowley staring at Hannah and the other angels.

Without even bothering to ask questions, Sam dropped the flashlight—dropped everything—and raced back through the hallways. His feet thudded against the polished tile floor. _Thump, thump, thump, thump._ He nearly slid the last few yards to the room. He flung open the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Dean's head was thrown back against the chair, his mouth hanging slightly open. Castiel was on the ground next to him, chest rising and falling slowly.

Sam's horrified voice rang out. "Dean? Cas?"

Dean stirred, and his eyes slowly opened. Disoriented, he tried to get out of the chair, only to find himself bound by the restraints Crowley had placed. He blinked rapidly for several seconds, then suddenly seemed to remember who and where he was. "_Damnit_," he muttered.

"Dean!" Relief flooded Sam's face. He could have sworn he _flew_ to Dean's side; he furiously worked at untying the ropes that bound his brother. "Thank God, Dean. I didn't know if—Jesus Christ, Dean, don't you _ever_ scare me like that again—" He kept talking until he was nearly breathless, then just continued untying Dean. He refused to think about Cas on the ground next to him—of course Hannah didn't know what she was talking about, of course it wouldn't kill him, he was probably just human again. But Cas was alive and so was Dean and as long as that was true, they could figure things out.

"Damnit Crowley," he breathed, "How freaking tight did you tie him?"

"Sammy."

"I'm right here, Dean."

"Sammy, look at me."

Sam untangled the last knot and circled the chair to face his brother. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here."

"Sammy—" Dean coughed. "Sammy, I was a demon, I was—"

Sam stared at his brother. Dean's eyes were green again—all traces of the demonic black had vanished. He let out a relieved sigh and pulled his brother into his arms. "I know, Dean. I know."

They stayed like that for several long seconds, before Dean suddenly pulled away. "Wait, Cas—" Dean tried to stand, but instead staggered and fell to the floor.

And that was when he noticed Cas.

His voice broke. "Cas? _Cas?_" He crawled over to the angel, shaking him violently. "Cas, buddy, come on…"

There was the sound of rushed footsteps. Hannah and Crowley's forms appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim red light. The King of Hell was expressionless, but Hannah's face was an irretrievable mess. "Castiel?"

When Dean heard her voice, he whirled around. Hurt and anger glinted in his eyes. "Get out! This is your fault!" he yelled. Cas's head was cradled in Dean's lap. "If you hadn't bloody worked him so hard—if you could fix your own damn problems instead of making him do it for you!" The words fell out of him, even as he told himself assigning blame wouldn't help him. He let himself yell at Hannah because that was better—_anything_ was better—than thinking about the reality, and the reality was that his angel was dying because of him.

"Please," he croaked. "Please, just leave."

"Dean—"

"Please."

Sam, for once, didn't argue. He ushered everyone else out, closing the door softly behind him and leaving his brother alone with Cas.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said, shaking the angel. "Cas, look at me, please." There wasn't anything. Just a lot of drowning silence. "Cas, goddamnit, talk to me."

Finally, Cas opened his eyes.

They were as blue and intense as ever, but they screamed in pain. "D-Dean—" Cas choked out.

"Damnit, Cas, you scared the crap out of me." Dean allowed himself a small laugh. Tears fell into his mouth. "Don't do that, okay? Can you promise me that? Don't ever do something stupid like that again." He lifted the angel up, resting Cas's back against the wall.

Cas gave a gentle smile. "Hello, Dean." Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. "I'm glad you're safe." His voice was barely audible.

"Cas, when all this is over, I am going to kill you. You know that, right?"

The angel chuckled. "I don't doubt it." He slumped to the side, nearly hitting the floor before Dean caught him. He held Cas, letting his limp weight rest against him. Cas coughed violently, his whole body shaking—suddenly, he felt very light in Dean's arms.

"Cas, stay with me, buddy." Dean shook him gently. "Why'd you do that, huh? Why'd you have to go and save me? You're an idiot. You know that, right? I was a demon, I wasn't—You shouldn't have saved me—"

"Cursed or not, remember?"

"What?"

"I'd rather have you. Cursed or not." Cas smiled, then breathed deeply. "I have lived a long time, Dean Winchester. I am glad—" He coughed again. "Of all the billions of people I've seen, I am glad I met you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you mean, 'I have lived a long time'? You're _going_ to live a long time, Cas! You're a freaking _angel_!" Dean pulled Cas closer. "Damn it, Cas, stop talking like you're going to—"

Cas shook his head, pressing a finger to Dean's lips. The calm expression in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency. "Dean. You need to let go." He tried pushing Dean away, but in his state wasn't strong enough. "Dean, my wings, they'll burn you—"

But Dean only held him tighter.

"Dean!"

"I'm not letting you go _again_, Cas. Not like in Purgatory. Not again." He winced as he felt the mark of Cas's wings slowly burning into his chest and arms, but only squeezed tighter. "Damnit, Cas! You can't—I need you, Cas, _please_."

Cas tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He gave one last attempt to push himself off of Dean. "Please_, _Dean," he whispered. Dean shook his head, hands grasping the sides of Cas's trenchcoat. So Cas finally gave up. He fell limp in Dean's arms. "Goodbye, Dean."

Of all the things to do next, Dean began to sing.

"_Hey Jude, don't make it bad—_" He choked on the words. Cas closed his eyes, listening to the rusty sound of Dean's voice. He smiled one last time.

"_Take a sad song, and make it better._

_Remember to let her into your heart,_

_Then you can start to make it better._"

Dean kept singing. Even when his voice grew scratchy and his throat went hoarse and Cas's wings had dried into his skin, even when his stupid little angel had taken his final breath, Dean didn't stop.

"_Hey…Jude…_" he gasped out the final words. He cried into Cas's shoulder then, holding the dead angel tight against his body. "It's my fault, it's my fault. I fucked it up with Metatron, _I _fucked up, _I'm_ the one who got myself bloody killed, damnit Cas, why would you do that? Don't you know we need you here?_ I_ need you, Cas, damnit, I _love_ you."

Nothing answered.

Nothing cared.

Dean Winchester loved Castiel.

But there was nothing except the throbbing ache of Cas's wings burnt into his chest.

**A/N: Okay um. I don't know what to feel about this. Um. I will read it and think it's good, then I will read it and think it's bad, but every time I read it I get teary eyed so. Um. Sorry .**

**On another note. I'm kind of confused about what my updating schedule is going to be. I'm going to try to update once a week. But. Yeah.**

**Um.**

**Sorry.**

**I should probably stop talking-**

**Yeah xD**


	7. Oh, Sherlock--BBC Sherlock

**.**

**Oh, Sherlock—**

**BBC Sherlock**

_A series of emails and texts between Mycroft and Sherlock after Reichenbach_

from: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 17 June 2012

subject: reichenbach

Brother dearest,

I assume you were able to find a suitable location for you to hide. I would ask if it is going well, but that seems unnecessary. To be honest, this whole little scheme you've come up with to take down Moriarty's network is quite ridiculous.

John stopped by221B today. He picked up most of his belongings. I offered to supply him money to help pay for another flat, but he declined. I find his sentimentality amusing.

Your funeral is in a few days. Needless to say, you should stay clear.

-MH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 26 June 2012

subject: re: reichenbach

Brother,

It is so dreadfully boring, yet you say I've found a _suitable_ location.

I suppose you wouldn't care to know I've already disposed of one of Moriarty's agents, and am on the trail of another.

Check up on John every so often, will you? He worries me.

And I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. I'm not even on the same continent as my supposed funeral.

-SH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 2 July 2012

subject: re: reichenbach

Dearest Sherlock,

Must you always be so quick to jump to petty conclusions? I never said anything about your inherent idiocy. Well, what I say and what I imply are often two very different things, as I'm sure you're aware.

I believe I have some useful information about these… "agents." Unfortunately, many of them reside in the heart of London. It's still too soon after your death. I will try to take care of them as discreetly as possible.

Do remember to reply soon.

-MH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 19 September 2012

subject: re: reichenbach

Sherlock, why haven't you responded?

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 27 October 2012

subject: re: reichenbach

Sherlock, answer me, for God's sake.

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 6 January 2013

subject: re: reichenbach

SHERLOCK!

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "mycroft holmes" email blocked

date: 23 March 2013

subject: re: reichenbach

I believe I am suffering from extreme head trauma. I may lapse into a coma at any second.

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 23 March 2013

subject: re: reichenbach

For Christ's sake, Sherlock! What did you do? Where are you? Text me!

...

Northern Belgium. Suburbs of Ghent. Trying to stay conscious.

_Sent 23 March 2013, 11:57P.M._

Sherlock, what the hell happened? I can be there in a few hours.

_Sent 23 March 2013, 11:58P.M._

No, don't come. Too suspicious. Send someone else.

_Sent 23 March 2013, 11:58P.M._

Don't be ridiculous. I'm coming over.

_Sent 23 March 2013, 11:59P.M._

Sherlock?

_Sent 24 March 2013, 12:02A.M._

Answer me, damnit!

_Sent 24 March 2013, 12:16A.M._

_Message send failure._

...

_17 July 2013_

_Unknown caller ID._

-Hello? Who is this?

-Hello, brother dearest.

-Sherlock. How did you get this number?

-A little birdy told me.

-I'm going to choose not to ask.

-Good idea.

-To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?

-Well, I—

**_Pause._**

-Spit it out.

-I wanted to thank you.

**_Silence._**

For helping me. That night in Ghent.

-Sherlock, I—

-There's no need to say anything.

**_Silence._**

How's John doing?

-Not very well, I'm afraid. He's having trouble eating. His limp's returned. It's quite a sorry sight.

**_Silence._**

-Try to help him, will you?

**_His voice catches._**

-The man's a train wreck, Sherlock. There isn't much I can do.

-Do your best.

**_Silence._**

Please.

-As always, brother of mine.

**_Click. _**

**_The line goes dead._**

...

From: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 30 May 2014

subject: a lovely announcement

I'm coming home.

-SH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "mycroft holmes" email blocked

date: 31 May 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

Christ, Sherlock. Nothing from you for a year. _Nothing._ Do you know how worried I was? It was like you disappeared off the face of the planet.

-MH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "mycroft holmes" email blocked

date: 2 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

Oh dearest brother, wasn't it you who once told me that caring was not an advantage? And here you are, fussing over me like Mummy over your new Christmas shoes.

Is John all right?

-SH

. . .

from: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 5 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

Oh, Sherlock, I don't think this needs to be explained.

He's found himself a lovely fiancé. They're getting married soon. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but he's moved on.

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "mycroft holmes" email blocked

date: 6 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

What the hell do you mean, he's moved on?

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

date: 9 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

He still misses you, of course. Probably. But he, like anyone would, has found a way to mask it. Knowing you, you probably haven't.

It's what people do, Sherlock. They move on.

I'm sorry, Sherlock.

. . .

From: email blocked

to: "mycroft holmes" email blocked

date: 12 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

You're a bloody idiot. You know that, don't you?

I'll be in Serbia in a few days. It's about time I come home.

Don't respond to this.

. . .

**_Drafts folder_**

from:

to: "sherlock holmes" email blocked

last modified: 13 June 2014

subject: re: a lovely announcement

Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock.

It _is_ about time you come home.

You keep asking about John, Sherlock.

Oh, dearest brother of mine, what about me?

Mummy would throw a fit, Sherlock.

Please come home safe and sound, little brother.

.

.

.

.

**A/N- YAY, MY BRAIN KEEPS RANDOMLY BARFING ON THE KEYBOARD, OOPS. Oh well. Here's another thing. **

**Reviews always appreciated! ^-^**


	8. The One Who Died For Love--Harry Potter

.

**The One Who Died For Love—**

**Harry Potter**

_Severus Snape's death scene from his point of view_

_"Go and fetch Snape."_

_"Snape, m-my lord?"_

_"Snape. Now, I need him. There is a – service – I require from him. Go."_

_-J.K. Rowling_

"Lucius," Snape commented, without turning to look at the tall man. He brandished his wand, knocking away spells directed at him by a group of frantic Ravenclaws. They couldn't be any older than fourth-years—how did they manage to stay behind without getting caught?

The blonde-haired man fell into step behind him, ruthlessly aiming a Cruciatus Curse at a young girl. She screamed and collapsed to the floor, writhing. Snape's insides squirmed, but he didn't even flinch. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" he muttered, nimbly dodging a Stunning Spell.

"The Dark Lord requires your presence," Lucius said, but he seemed distracted. His eyes flitted about the battlefield, looking for his son, Snape assumed.

He knew better than to ask why he was needed. "You can take over here?" he asked. Snape doubted the other man had even heard him. If Lucius had, it wouldn't matter, because he was already on his way to the Shrieking Shack.

He ducked between the shooting spells of a Gryffindor student and Death Eater locked in battle, but he didn't get farther than a few steps past them before he turned around. _Petrificus Totalus_, he thought, and a jet of light shot from his wand at the Death Eater. Her body locked up and she collapsed to the ground, her wand flying several feet away from her. Before the student could turn around and thank his savior, Snape was gone.

Soon, he was away from the shooting lights, crumbling walls, and deafening noises of the battle and at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. With an expert flick of his wrist, Snape sent a branch to block the knot at the base of the Whomping Willow. It's thrashing branches calmed and he crawled through the hole beneath its roots, flinching at the nearly suffocating confinement of the tunnel. He felt relieved when he finally emerged in the Shrieking Shack.

There Voldemort was, as nonchalant as ever. The Dark Lord stroked Nagini's head—it took Snape a moment to figure out why the snake was floating in midair. It had a shimmering purple ball surrounding it.

"You summoned me, my Lord?"

"Ah, yes, my dear Severus. I require a service of you."

And in that moment, Snape understood he wouldn't make it out of the Shack alive. As always, however, he remained composed. He calculated what he should do next, and figured his best option was to buy as much time as possible. He needed Harry to turn up.

Not only for the outcome of the Second Wizarding War, of course, but also because he couldn't go to his death while Lily's son believed he was a heartless killer. _Oh, Lily…_

"I believe I would be of more service out on the battlefield—" he began.

"No, there is something rather…special." Voldemort stepped closer to Snape, and Nagini's protective casing followed him.

Snape was still standing in front of the tunnel entrance to the Shack. As the Dark Lord approached him, he could swear he heard the muffled rustling of movement behind him. _Finally._

"My Lord, their resistance is crumbling," he said. He was beginning to show physical signs of panic now; he couldn't help it. Adrenaline, masked by endorphins, flooded his body. Sweat beaded on his forehead and neck, glistening in the half-light and the flashing colors of the distant battle. He'd known that this would eventually happen—the Dark Lord was not stupid and was bound to find out—so why did he feel so _terrified_? Why was he utterly consumed by fear?

"And it is doing so without your help," Lord Voldemort responded. His voice was high and clear; his eyes were cold and intense. "Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there…almost." His serpentine eyes bored into Snape's stony black ones.

Snape heard Harry shifting position in the tunnel. "Let me bring you the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please." A feeble attempt. Why was he fighting his death? It was inevitable, and it wasn't like he had much to live for, anyway.

He walked away from the tunnel, trying to divert Voldemort's attention from that particular area. As he'd suspected, the Dark Lord's red eyes followed Snape's every movement.

"I have a problem, Severus."

"My Lord?"

Lord Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, barely holding its end. It seemed to dangle precariously from his long, spiderlike fingers.

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?"

Nagini hissed, tongue flicking in and out.

Snape tried to feign ignorance. "My—my Lord? I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand." His heart thumped against his chest—it was a small miracle the whole world could not hear it in this desperate moment.

"No," Voldemort said curtly. His attention turned to the wand in his hand. "I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand…no. it has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the wand I procured from Ollivander all those years ago." He looked back up at Snape, and though his tone was calm, his eyes contained a mask of sociopathic, subdued fury.

"_No difference_."

It took all of Snape's willpower to stop himself from crumbling to the floor. He closed his eyes for a brief second, opening them again to see Voldemort pacing around the room. The Dark Lord's next words were calm and calculated, still deftly maintaining his composed façade.

"I have thought long and hard, Severus…Do you know why have called you back from the battle?"

_Oh, god, yes._ "No, my Lord." _Please let me live._ "But I beg you will let me return." _I need to tell Harry._ "Let me find Potter."

"You sound like Lucius," Voldemort commented. _Poor Lucius. He only wanted to find his son. _Despite Snape's utter hatred for the man, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pity for him. "Neither of you understands Potter like I do. He does not need finding. He will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come."

_He's already here._ "But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—"

"My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends—the more, the better—but do not kill him." He paused, turning back to Snape. "But it is of _you_ that I wish to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. _Very _valuable."

Snape thought he could catch the lightest glimpse of a smirk upon the Dark Lord's face. His hand trembled at his side. "My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can—"

"I have told you, no!" In that instant, Voldemort's calm demeanor disappeared. His sharp red eyes glared at Snape, boring into him. "My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!" The rage was no longer suppressed, but now showed with full force, like it was slamming Snape against the wall.

"My Lord, there can be no question, surely—?"

"—but there is a question, Severus. There is." He passed the Wand through his fingers. And there it was again. That restrained, concentrated fury. "Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

"I—I cannot answer that, my Lord."

"Can't you?" Voldemort asked. His voice was rich with venom. "My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another's wand. I did so, but Lucius's wand shattered upon meeting Potter's."

Snape's dark eyes flicked to the sphere holding Nagini. "I—I have no explanation, my Lord."

Voldemort spoke quietly and slowly, like he was addressing a child. "I sought at third one, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

_Here it comes_. Snape's eyes shot up, looking directly at Voldemort. He could feel the little color he had left leaving his face.

"My Lord—let me go to the boy—" he stammered, one last frail attempt to stay alive.

"All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here," he began. His voice was like a story, passed down through the ages. "Wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner…and I think I have the answer."

There was a long pause, and as Snape stared into Voldemort's snakelike eyes, the only thing he could see was a flash of light and the body of a green-eyed woman thudding to the floor.

"Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord—"

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder wand cannot truly be mine."

"My Lord!" He raised his wand. But of course he would never use it. Even as he glared at the man he hated most (what an obvious thought to be having about his would-be killer), he knew he'd never even get the chance. His hand fell back to his side.

"It cannot be any other way," said Voldemort. "I must master the Wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."

Severus braced himself for it. His back straightened and he stared right into Voldemort's poisonous red eyes, waiting for a flare of green light to cross his vision. Waiting for the world to go dark. And yet—why was the Dark Lord smirking?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nagini's sphere slowly moving towards him. Voldemort hissed something in Parseltongue, and before Snape could stop himself, a scream escaped his lungs. Oddly enough, he could feel no pain, no venom as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor.

"I regret it," Voldemort remarked coldly, the slightest trace of amusement lacing his voice.

Voldemort left the room, and Snape pressed his hand to his neck, pulling his fingers away. He seemed shocked to find them covered in blood.

And that's when he felt the pain.

It branched out from his throat, racing down through his veins to the rest of his body. His blood was on fire, and every part of him screamed for help. But he was unable to answer. Snape tried to stem the bleeding with his hand, but hot red liquid continued to gush from his throat.

He didn't notice the crate moving in the corner of the room. He didn't notice a figure pulling itself into the room. In fact, Snape didn't notice the boy who lived until he was kneeling in front of him. His black eyes flashed with recognition and he grabbed Harry, pulling the boy towards him. _Please,_ his eyes begged.

He felt the memories leaking from his mouth and ears. "Take…it…" he rasped. Blood spilled from his mouth as he spoke. "Take…it…" He was pleading now, begging, trying to find some traces of Lily before he faded away. Staring at those familiar green eyes. The silvery blue liquid spilled into the flask that was now in Harry's hands, and Snape seemed to relax.

_Thank you._

Snape wanted to tell Harry many things. He wanted to tell him that he had his mother's eyes—something the boy had probably heard enough times. He wanted to beg his forgiveness and he wanted to tell him that he loved Lily.

Goddamnit, he loved her.

But as his breath escaped him, all he was able to say was, "Look… at… me…"

His black eyes locked with the familiar green, and in his mind, it was Lily, not Harry who knelt by his side when he slipped away.

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**A/N- Hey! Does anybody have any requests for one-shots? Please comment below if you have any ideas ^-^**


	9. It's A Wonderful Life--CreepyPasta

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**It's a Wonderful Life—**

**CreepyPasta**

_In which Laughing Jack is on a killing spree._

_Rated M for Gore and Graphic Violence_

"All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel." The scratchy voice echoed throughout the vacant hallways. "The monkey thought it was all in fun, POP goes the weasel!" Laughing Jack sang merrily as he sauntered down the corridors of the now-empty apartment building. He cackled and popped a piece of candy into his mouth, turning his face inside-out at the sour taste, then smiling with pleasure as it became sweet.

He passed by several doors down the long hallway, and was almost at the end when he heard a noise that made him stop and turn around. The soft sound of crying could be heard from inside one of the rooms. "What's this?" L.J. whispered. "I missed someone?" He grinned and kicked open the door to see a little girl of about two or three kneeling beside the bloody body of a man—probably her father.

"Hello, little child," L.J. said, chuckling as the girl turned with a horrified look and began to cower back into the corner. "What's the matter, little girl? Don't you want some candy?" He held out a hand full of the sugary sweets. Hesitantly, the oblivious, naïve girl stretched out her hand, taking a piece, pulling off the wrapper and sucking on it quietly. "That's it," L.J. said, like he was coaxing a stray dog to eat. He stepped closer and lifted the girl into the air, grinning at the sound of her scream. With a long knife (more of a sword really), he sliced open her body from chest to abdomen. He placed her, screaming and crying, onto the sofa, and sliced open her stomach. "You can have all the candy you want now," he said, replacing the half-digested food with loads of candy. He pried open the girl's ribs to see her heart, still beating ever so faintly.

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**A/N- Well wasn't this gory. **

***I WAS REALLY BORED AND MY FRIEND GAVE ME A CREEPYPASTA PROMPT OKAY***


	10. Demons--SongsDisney

**Demons—**

**Song x Frozen**

_"Demons" by Imagine Dragons and Elsa from Frozen_

_When the days are cold…_

Elsa paced around her castle, hands pressed to either side of her head. Hail had started to fall from the clouds, and it made a horrible pinging sound against the ice walls and ceiling.

_And the cards all fold..._

She buckled, crumpling to the floor. Her screams echoed throughout the smooth, frozen walls. _Oh, Anna._

_And the saints we see are all made of gold._

She looked up, at the spiky icicles that had protruded from the walls and ceiling, at the inky purple-black color that had permeated her castle. "What have I done?" she said aloud. She didn't get any answer but the sound of clattering hail.

_ I wanna hide the truth. I wanna shelter you._

"I shouldn't have shut you out, Anna. Maybe if I'd let you in, none of this would have happened." _But it was to protect her._ That's what Elsa had convinced herself. She hid to protect her sister.

_But with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide_.

"I shouldn't have exploded back in Arendelle. This is my fault. I was supposed to conceal it. I wasn't supposed to feel it." Elsa turned onto her side. Tears leaked from her eyes, freezing as they hit the floor.

_Don't get too close. It's dark inside._

Anna…why had she come back? It wasn't safe. Elsa's powers were too hard to control, didn't Anna know that?

_It's where my demons hide._

They called her a monster. But really, she was just scared. She was scared of hurting people, especially her sister, and she never wanted any of this to happen. How could she have known she'd set off an eternal winter? It wasn't like she'd had anyone to help her with her powers. All her parents had ever done was hide it—and look what had happened!

_I need to let you go._

It was for the best. Elsa was only going to harm her sister, so it was best if they stayed away from each other. It had to be this way.

_Your eyes, they shine so bright_.

Anna. She'd done something to Anna, when her younger sister had visited. Anna, that amazing and naïve little girl who only wanted to build a snowman. _Of course I want to build a snowman, Anna._ But she'd hurt Anna. And what was it that the trolls had said? Something about the heart. The heart is not so easily persuaded.

Had she killed Anna?

_I wanna save that light._

No. She wouldn't believe it. "No!" she screamed. Her hands gripped at the walls, her fingers digging into the ice. She pulled herself up, staggering towards the balcony. "No," she whispered.

_ I can't escape this now, unless you show me how._

"Anna, help me," Elsa said, staring outside the icy doors. Hail was continuing to cascade from the sky, bouncing against the castle with a steady, metallic ringing. "Tell me, Anna. How do I stop this winter?"

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**A/N: I'm so sorry I didn't update last week! I was busy all weekend due to debate. **

**I had a few people asking me to do a song oneshot, so here's one.**

**Please continue to send in reviews, and maybe suggestions/prompts for future one-shots?**

**Thank you all for reading!**


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